


Winning Harry's Trust

by FarAwayEyes4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Good Severus Snape, Harry Potter Has Issues, Harry Potter Has Mental Illness, Harry Potter Has PTSD, Harry has anger issues, Hogwarts First Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentor Severus Snape, POV Harry Potter, POV Severus Snape, Severus Snape Has a Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28958259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FarAwayEyes4/pseuds/FarAwayEyes4
Summary: While holding detention with Harry Potter, Severus Snape learns some horrible truths about the boy's home life.How does he react? What will he do now that he knows?
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 20
Kudos: 157





	1. The Detention that Changed Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No monies are being made from this fanfiction and no copyright infringements are intended.

“You will copy these potion directions until you have them memorized, Potter,” Severus said, glaring down at his least favorite student. His eyes narrowed as Potter stared back up at him, the insolence written all over his face. He thought, Just like his father. “Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, Potter?”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Potter said, the words clipped. He gripped the quill hard in one fist. The boy took a piece of parchment and slapped it onto the desk. The scowl on his face betrayed his distaste for this particular detention. His quill scratched over the parchment with force. Its harsh sound grated on Severus' nerves. He itched to yank the quill from the first year's hand and teach him proper penmanship. 

One lesson at a time.

Potter seemed determined to fail his potions course. To spare the extra clean-up and the extra teaching, Severus decided that if he could imprint at least one potion into the boy's skull it would be worth it. 

Hence the reason for this detention. 

Despite his reputation, Severus wanted his students to succeed. He did. He wanted to pass on his knowledge of the arts of potion making. Severus believed it might be better if they didn't offer potions until third-year. The students would be more mature, less of a risk in the lab, and perhaps more eager to learn the basic safety rules of potion brewing. It might help more to learn the finer intricacies that so few seemed to grasp. 

Especially Harry Potter.

It didn't help that the boy looked just like his father, James, right down to the insolent expression. So far, Harry Potter reminded Severus of the arrogant and entitled boy from his days as a student at Hogwarts. Potter's disdain for his class, for his House, and for him, in particular, all seemed far too familiar. He would put a stop to such disrespect. 

Severus took his seat at his desk and picked up a stack of sixth-year essays to grade. If he had to sit here, he'd at least get something done.

Silence — save for that infuriating scratching — filled the room. Severus read over the first essay, making corrections and comments as he went. He clenched his jaw to keep his temper in check. He had asked the boy to write this, after all. Finishing one essay, Severus flipped it over onto the corner of his desk. He licked a finger, selecting the next.

Sixth years — and seventh — were his favorite to teach. By the N.E.W.T. level, those that remained showed potential and aptitude. Those students wanted to learn and excel, not just to pass the class or the time. Severus believed he did the most good in teaching those courses. All the chaff had been plucked from the wheat by then, leaving him with the best of their class.

This essay proved his point. They wrote in nuance and detail about the methods to make an antidote to the venom of most magical snakes, save the basilisk. Some of it was only theory, but Severus saw its merits. If all of his students had only been this thoughtful perhaps his job would be that much easier. If only they held such regard for his subject. 

Potter scratched the quill across his parchment with a loud scrape. Each pen stroke etched across Severus’ nerves. It disturbed Severus from his reading, trying to suss out what counter argument he could provide to his Ravenclaw protege. It made him sit bolt upright and scowl at the incompetent boy before him.

“Write quietly, Mr. Potter,” Severus said, his voice soft but deadly. “There is no need to etch your quill through the parchment.”

Potter snorted at him and relaxed his iron grip on the quill, writing much quieter. A sullen frown curled his lips. He said, his voice sarcastic, “Sorry, _sir_.”

Severus sighed, turning back to his marking.

The time seemed to flow better after that reprimand. He managed to read through over half the essays, delighting in their complex thought processes and deductions. Not all were correct, but the debate they provided in pushing Potion making forward always engaged him. It reminded Severus of his corrections in the textbook he had from his time as a student. The book remained locked in his cabinet. Some of his additions or corrections only emerged to his N.E.W.T. Levels as a treat to reward their perseverance.

It wasn't something the younger years could grasp, even those that showed potential. 

Which Harry Potter certainly did not.

The boy had taken his command to write quietly a little too far. Severus hadn't heard any quill scratches beyond his own in quite a while. He lifted his eyes, expecting to see an insolent Harry Potter sitting with arms folded, staring back at him. Instead, he found the boy fast asleep, head on the desk. His quill hung loosely from his fingertips, dangling. A pained expression flashed across the boy's face, the only thing that made Severus pause in disciplining Potter for sleeping. He flinched and whimpered softly. His brows crinkled in distress. 

“Not the cupboard. It's dark in there,” Potter muttered. “I didn't mean it, Uncle Vernon.”

An eyebrow arched and Severus wondered what Potter meant. Quietly, he set the essays aside, making certain to leave the ungraded ones on top. For now, he would observe before waking the boy. What type of nightmare was this?

A strange tingle of concern crawled up his spine — one that he tried to squash. Severus didn't want to have any sympathy for Harry Potter. And yet, the boy looked so vulnerable, sleeping on his desk. His expression tensed as if Potter tried to curl upon himself. It struck Severus just how small the boy was. He didn't seem that way when awake. Now, though, he realized that Potter's feet didn't quite touch the floor. The black mop of hair hid the tell-tale scar from view. His glasses had gone askew, nearly sliding off his face. 

“No, Aunt Petunia. I won't do eat anything, I promise,” Potter whispered, a desperate edge in his voice. “I'll cook the bacon and the eggs for Dudley's birthday. Please. Just don't put me in the cupboard.”

Petunia? Surely it had to be a coincidence. Right?

Severus's eyebrows shot up then knit together as he processed what else Potter had said. He cooked this meal but didn't get to eat it? He was eleven. Why would he have to cook in the first place? It disturbed Severus that they seemingly locked the boy up in a cupboard, too. Just what had happened to Potter to dream something like this? Just what home life did the boy really have? 

The time had come to wake the boy. He had watched Potter in distress long enough.

Severus stood slowly and approached. Despite his disdain for Potter, he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shook him once. The boy shot up, his green eyes, so like his mother's, locking onto Severus's black. 

_In a flash, all without trying through Legilimens, Severus relived Potter's nightmare. He watched, horrified, as Potter was dragged by that mess of black hair by a large Muggle man. The man’s fingers snarled in it, tugging hard. The man snarled at Potter, raising a hand as if he'd strike him. His red face loomed over the boy, rage in his piggy eyes. The man tossed Potter towards an open door. It revealed a cupboard under the stairs. Severus saw a small sleeping pallet, indicating that this is where the boy slept. Potter tumbled into it, falling with a grunt onto his behind. Defiance etched across his face, but fear filled his eyes. The pupils blew wide, staring up at the man in supplication._

_“I told you, boy. You're a freak. You wished away the bacon. I know you did. You'll stay in this cupboard until you remember not to upset Dudders with your nonsense,” the man snarled, shaking a fist at Potter. His face turned purple. He gripped the door, preparing to slam it. “Your people are not to be tolerated in his house.”_

_Confusion washed over Potter's face. He cried, his voice small, “My what? I don't understand!”_

_“We took you in and this is how you repay us? Duddykins wanted to have the best birthday and you ruined it by making the bacon disappear! How dare you, you ungrateful and dreadful boy!”_

_Severus gasped as he saw Petunia Evans tower over Potter. She had aged but he would recognize that pinched face anywhere. This — this was where Dumbledore had sent the boy at the end of the First War? He had hidden Lily's son with her vile sister, the one that held no respect for magic? These people had locked a child away for what Severus guessed must be accidental magic. Petunia Evans disgusted him.  
Potter looked even smaller here — maybe seven years old. Tears pooled in his eyes, streaking down his face. The boy trembled. He said, his voice a small sob, “I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Please! Let me cook more and make it better. Just don't lock me in.”_

_“That was the only bacon we had. You can't, you freak!” Petunia said coldly. She stood, her arms crossed across her chest. A sneer twisted her face into a mask of hatred. She snapped, “Vernon, lock the door. He'll only ruin Duddykins big day.”_

_Vernon slammed the door shut, locking it with two locks. He leaned towards a grate fixed in it. “You'll stay here and not make so much as a sound the rest of the day or I'll tan your hide, boy. You freak.”_

_The ghost of Potter's face peeked through the grate before Vernon slammed it shut._

With a sharp gasp, the connection severed. Severus' eyes went wide then narrowed. Towering anger welled deep inside him, threatening to boil over. How dare they treat a magical child this way. How dare they treat Potter this way. Severus had had no idea. The abuse they inflicted was unforgivable. Severus balled his hands into fists at his sides. He couldn't believe what he had seen.

Before tonight’s revelation, Severus had believed that Potter had been spoiled. He had built up the image of a brat in his head. He had imprinted on the child the idea that Potter had been entitled and pampered. Severus had allowed jealousy to bubble in his gut at the boy. He had believed that Potter’s childhood had been everything that Severus’ had not. He had been safe, secure, and given everything he desired. 

Severus could not have been more wrong. 

Harry Potter had been abused viciously. For how long? Did Dumbledore know? Had he tried to stop this? They had locked Potter away like a damn house elf. Severus wanted to smash something. He had dedicated his life to avenging Lily's death and to keep her son alive. He had made a Vow. He had to do it to make up for his own sins and to make right what he had done wrong, even if it was far too late. Severus owed Lily that much. 

Dumbledore had promised him that they would do just that. Had that been a lie?

Severus knew that he struggled with Potter. Since the boy's arrival at the school, he had just seen a carbon copy of James Potter. All of the abuse, the insults, the hexes, the taunts all came back whenever Severus saw Potter's face. He remembered the times he would be cornered by the Marauders, reminded how he didn't fit in, how he was the butt of every joke. He dressed too poorly. He didn't like the right things, especially his fascination with Potions and the Dark Arts. He was a Slytherin and not a Gryffindor. At every turn, Severus knew that he didn't measure up to them with the teachers or his fellow students — and in the end even to Lily.

It didn't excuse him for what he had done then — or now to this boy. As much as he disliked Potter, he knew that he didn't deserve that vile treatment. What they had done to him, what Petunia had done to him, was cruel. He was a child. He was not his father, no matter how much Severus projected him onto the boy. He saw that now. If Severus had only known. If only Severus hadn’t been so self-absorbed in his own past grievances against James Potter. He realized that Harry Potter had perhaps been in more danger at that house than he ever was at Hogwarts.

Potter stared up at him, transfixed. All color drained from his face, making the dark circles under his eyes prominent. His eyes went wide, fear and guilt swirling in their emerald depths. He tensed, folding in on himself as if expecting the first blow. Severus realized he may have broken free of the nightmare, but the boy hadn't. None of his defiance or spirit filled his face. 

Instead, a frightened child remained.

Severus wanted to comfort him. He just couldn't. Not yet.

“Your detention has come to an end, Potter,” Severus snarled, arctic rage giving his voice a sharp edge. He clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides. The crunch of his teeth echoed in his head as he clenched them hard. Severus jabbed one finger towards the door. “Get. Out.”

Potter scrambled out of his seat and packed his schoolbag in haste. One book wouldn’t fit and he started to shove hard, a soft whimper escaping him. As soon as it fit and he had latched the bag shut, he fled the room. Potter glanced over his shoulder in bewilderment.  
Severus realized that he had confused Potter with his reaction. Potter probably believed he had committed some new sin. The boy would think he was the cause for his professor’s outburst, that his sleeping had infuriated Severus. He needed the boy gone so he wouldn't frighten him more. Potter had had enough of that in his young life. Severus needed to process what he had just learned. His anger needed an outlet that was not a frightened little boy. 

The desk sat empty, the parchment, quill, and ink well sitting atop it. With a swift motion, Severus flipped it over. The crash satisfied the anger in him. Ink splattered the floor. It formed a black pool, oozing across the stone. The quill skittered away, the feathers stained from the ink. The parchment floated to land on top of the overturned desk. Severus saw that Potter had copied the potion at least twenty times before falling into his nightmare. 

Severus felt guilt curl through him only to be replaced by rage. It flowed through him as he pondered his next move. Would it be wise to tell Dumbledore? What good would that accomplish? What good had it accomplished when Severus had told him about his own abuse at the hands of the Marauders all those years ago? Why did the old man ignore the grim truth in front of him every time? 

“No.” Severus sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. His shoulders sagged. The anger rushed out of him to be replaced by a deep disappointment. A new weight pressed down on Severus’ shoulders. In the oppressive silence of his potions classroom, he whispered, “He's known all along and done nothing.”

If Dumbledore wouldn't do something, Severus would.  
\--------  
Harry fled. He ran upstairs and down hallways aimlessly. He had to get to his cupboard. As much as he hated the small, cramped space, Harry knew that he would be safe from Uncle Vernon’s belt and Aunt Petunia’s frying pan. He had done something freakish. He had ruined Dudley’s birthday. 

He threw open a door and entered the small cupboard. Harry tucked himself into it, shutting the door with a soft click.  
Harry squeezed himself into a tiny ball, rocking. He hated that he always somehow ended up here, locked away. 

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia. I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon.” Harry bit his lip, the taste of coppery blood flooding his mouth. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to be a freak. I swear.” 

Cotton filled his ears. He could barely hear his breathing and heartbeat. Sweat coated his face and his palms. The darkness closed around him in equal measures of comfort and terror. This small space would protect him from them. It would also constrict around him. Harry’s head throbbed. His muscles ached. 

There was no escape from the cupboard. There never was. 

Harry began to hyperventilate. It had been a while since he had incurred such absolute wrath from his aunt and uncle. He knew he’d be locked here for a solid week for sure. His infraction had been too freaky, too unforgiveable. Harry had pushed them too far, had upset Dudley. He wished he could stop doing these things. He wanted to rip the freakishness out. 

Maybe then they’d not hate him.

“Stupid freak.” Harry made it into a mantra, whispering it over and over. He rocked rhythmically, his arms wrapped tight around his knees. “Stupid, stupid freak.”

The darkness started to press down on him. He curled tighter in on himself. The cupboard smelled musty. It didn’t smell like sweat or urine. Instead, cedar and pine swirled around him. Silence pressed down on him, hard and heavy. He didn’t hear the television. He didn’t hear Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon bustling around outside the cupboard door. Had they left for the night? 

Harry reached out in the dark, finding not the usual light switch cord but the handle of a broom. He ran a hand along it, curious. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have put this here, even if it would have made his life more miserable. She didn’t trust him with her broom unless he was using it to do chores and she always checked it after every use to make sure he hadn’t wrecked the bristles. Harry winced as he remembered the time they had been spread too far after being jammed into a corner. Aunt Petunia had swiftly smacked the handle across his back with a crack. 

Harry took a deep breath, blinking. He leaned against the wall, the cool stone soothing his skin. He wasn’t on Privet Drive. He was at Hogwarts. He was safe from his aunt and uncle. They couldn’t hurt him here. 

He laughed hysterically. It bubbled out of him, the short barks of it echoing in the confined space of the cupboard. Harry flung the door open, tumbling out of it to land in an unceremonious heap on the floor. The stone looked dusty around him as if this classroom had fallen out of disrepair. 

“I’m at Hogwarts.” Harry recited it as a new mantra, grounding himself in the here and the now, not what had happened when he was seven. “I’m at Hogwarts.”

He stared up at a torch, mesmerized by the flame. The wizarding world had been so different from his Muggle upbringing. He found all of it enchanting and liberating. Here, Harry wasn’t beat for being a wizard. He wasn’t locked away because he had made something freakish happen. Harry was so relieved that he was here and not dreaming. 

A sudden chill coursed through him. He had been dreaming. About Privet Drive. In detention. With Snape. He was probably in even more trouble than he was before the detention. Harry knew the man wouldn’t take it well that he had slept when he was meant to be serving detention. He didn’t like Harry as it was. This was just another way that Harry infuriated him. 

The man had been so furious right before he had fled. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen Snape so angry before. His instinct had told him to flee as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to know what the man would have done to a freak like him if he had stayed. Harry would have to watch him. He knew that Snape had never hit him, but that could always change. Harry could infuriate him enough to make him.  
Harry only hoped that the next time their paths crossed that he wouldn’t find out. 

For now, he was at Hogwarts — which meant he was home. And safe. 

Tomorrow was another day.


	2. Chapter Two: Seeing Harry for Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus watches Potter the following day after the detention. He has to reassess everything he thinks he knows about the Boy Who Lived. 
> 
> In Potions class, just what conclusions does he draw after watching Potter make that day's potion??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No monies are being made from this fanfiction and no copyright infringements are intended.

The Great Hall buzzed with the idle chit-chatter of breakfast. Severus tuned most of it out, fixating on his fury from the previous night. He had held Harry Potter in detention only to discover the truth about the boy's abysmal treatment at the hands of Petunia Evans and her husband. The Potions professor stared at the Headmaster out of the corner of his eye. His rage tugged between settling on Petunia and Dumbledore. Both had equal shares in the terrible abuse Potter had suffered. Severus wanted them to endure a similar level of treatment just to balance out what they had done. 

He wanted justice for the boy. 

Dumbledore continued to eat his breakfast, oblivious to the seething Severus. He leaned over, making a comment to Professor Flitwick. They chuckled quietly, only making Severus's temper fray all the more. It infuriated him that the Headmaster remained oblivious to his anger – or to the damage done to Potter. The callousness of it rubbed Severus the wrong way. 

Temptation curled in Severus’ gut. If he confronted Dumbledore here and now, the man could not deny it. Everyone would know that the Boy Who Lived had been abused with the Headmaster's knowledge. 

That he didn't have definitive and physical proof was the only thing that stopped him. 

Petunia and Vernon deserved punishments. Severus stabbed his fork into his food, concocting various retributions. He wouldn't kill her and her husband. That would be too good for them. He thought about poisoning them. Being a Potions Master, he had many choices to pick from, all of them excruciating but not deadly. He thought about hexes. Severus imagined using a few Unforgiveables on the pair. Perhaps drawing Potter's memories and forcing them to live what he had in a Pensieve would be justice. He thought about darkening their doorstep to threaten them. None of the punishments seemed satisfying enough. 

Severus lifted his gaze, searching out Harry Potter. He realized that he had to shed his own preconceived notions about the boy. He couldn't be this furious about Potter's treatment and not adjust his own. If he had any hope of fixing some of what Petunia Evans had done to the boy, Severus had to see Harry Potter for Harry Potter – not as his father, James. He would have to see beyond the defiant mask that hid this abuse. Had Potter ever told anyone about it at all? Severus knew this would be a challenge, but no time like the present to begin. 

He watched the boy eat his breakfast. Potter looked around as he took a few bites. His eyes shifted from person to person, assessing everyone as if they'd take his plate. He curled an arm around it, protecting it. Potter nibbled a few bites, eating them quickly before moving onto the next as if it'd disappear. Severus wondered if Potter knew that he telegraphed his anxiety over food. He couldn't blame the boy. In Petunia's home, how often did it get taken away?

Potter froze when his eyes met Severus's, his fork hesitating mid-bite. He lowered it and hunched further as if the Potions professor might take his food from across the Great Hall. Severus narrowed his eyes at the defensive gesture. Potter stared at him as he ate, hesitating between each bite. If he could have read the boy's mind at this moment, he'd swear Potter was asking for permission. Severus nodded as if giving it before glancing away so the boy could enjoy his breakfast. 

“You're not tormenting Harry at breakfast, are you, Severus?” Dumbledore asked, amusement in his voice. “He certainly seems to think you are judging by the way he's staring at you.”

“Interesting choice of words. I prefer the word observe,” Severus said dryly. He seethed inside, knowing that he still couldn't confront the Headmaster. How could Dumbledore joke about Potter's torment knowing that he had been subjected to the wretched Petunia Evans? Did he not care?

“And what have you _observed_ , Severus?” Dumbledore turned towards him, a playful smile on his weathered face.   
“A boy who has another tedious detention with me this evening.” He drank some water, squeezing his water goblet.

“Is that all?”

“Not all of us are awed by the Boy Who Lived. Certainly not when he remains steadfast in his goal to fail my course.” Severus rolled his eyes, knowing it was the expected response.

Dumbledore laughed. “You always have been one of our most challenging teachers, Severus. Try a new approach. He may yet surprise you.”

Severus snorted. _I plan on trying a lot of new approaches. Just not the way you intend. Especially not the results I seek._ Aloud, he retorted, “I find that unlikely.”

Severus turned his attention towards Potter's friends. Weasley ate at a furious pace, unaware of his friend's distress. Granger nudged him, attempting to slow down the mad rush. Severus knew that the Weasley boy was a younger brother and ate quickly out of habit. After all, that many brothers meant eating as fast as possible to get as much as possible. Weasley dropped a bite from his fork with a frown. He asked her what she'd done that for, judging from the expression on his face.

Granger tilted her head in Potter's direction. A concerned frown crossed her face. Severus arched an eyebrow. So Granger noticed Potter's behavior. He'd have to keep her in mind as he started to change his understanding of Potter. Clearly, she knew how to read him and realized he hid a lot behind defiance. 

Potter leaned towards Granger, whispering something in her ear. His eyes met Severus's again as he did it. The Potions professor frowned as he realized Potter was talking about him. Granger flicked her gaze in his direction as well before whispering furiously back to Potter. The boy folded in on himself, nodding. He shrugged at something she said. Granger put a gentle hand on his arm and smiled. 

Severus wished he could have overheard the exchange. What was Potter's impression of last night's detention? He knew Potter didn't know he had seen the boy's nightmare. What did he think of that moment Severus had ordered him out? He assumed Potter had been embarrassed by falling asleep and having the nightmare in the first place. Knowing their contentious relationship, Severus knew the boy saw the whole interaction in a negative light.

That was his fault and he knew it'd be one of the first hurdles he'd have to overcome if he was ever going to get Potter to disclose the abuse Petunia had inflicted. 

Potter, Granger and Weasley all stood, slinging their book-bags over their shoulders. They made their way out of the Great Hall. At its entrance, Potter glanced back over his shoulder, a puzzled expression crossing his face. His eyes met Severus's before he ducked his head. Weasley tugged on his sleeve and they exited. 

Once he disappeared, Severus flicked his gaze towards Dumbledore. How could he not see Potter's distress? How could he not care? The Potions professor believed Potter had never spoken to anyone about his abuse. The Headmaster knew and let it weigh down his supposed favorite student. Severus itched to know why. He wanted the man to state it plainly. 

He couldn't let Dumbledore know what he knew now. He'd stop him from trying to help the boy. Severus knew from experience that the eccentric Headmaster had a reason for putting Potter with these vindictive people and would defend it despite their abominable treatment. Dumbledore would brush aside the worst of their abuses. He would perhaps even blather on about how it’d make Potter stronger or ready when the Dark Lord rose once more. It would prove futile to confront him. Severus had to handle this on his own.  
\------------  
Later that morning, Severus stood before his Potions classroom. He towered over his first year students, watching them file in and take their seats. Potter frowned as he spotted the ink stain that remained by the desk Severus had overturned the night before. He sat down at the same desk, putting his textbook on the corner. He sat stiffly, his gaze anywhere but the Potions professor. Already small, Potter folded in on himself, trying to escape attention. He arranged his cauldron and supplies in silence. He brushed off every whisper or tap from Granger or Weasley.

If the floor could have swallowed Harry Potter, Severus believed that the boy would have let it. 

Severus sighed. It might be easier to teach the boy Potions than to get him to not see him as the enemy. 

He flicked his wand at the board, posting the directions in fine scrawl. Severus turned to face the class. His gaze swept over them, his expression stoic. He stated, “You have two hours.”

Students filed to the cabinet, acquiring what they would need in a mad scramble. Each went back to their cauldrons to prepare the simple healing potion. Potter set his ingredients carefully onto the desk, arranging them by size. He put his cutting board down, selecting the Pungous onions. He deliberately sliced them as the directions indicated. Severus watched the movements, impressed with the speed of them. A frown crossed his face as he realized those skills had been instilled by necessity under Petunia's tyranny. 

Unbidden to himself, Severus praised, “Exceptional slicing, Potter.”

Potter froze mid-slice. His head snapped up. His eyes went wide and a slight blush stained his cheeks. The boy ducked his head, muttering, “Thank you, sir.”

Severus nodded. He continued around the room, monitoring the progress of all the students. Except for Longbottom, the only student faring worse than Potter overall, the first years grasped this potion. He gave clipped corrections and minimal praise as he circulated. Malfoy preened under Severus's praise but scowled often at Potter for receiving that one comment. Severus resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at the spoiled Malfoy heir's foolish behavior. 

Severus stopped his circuit, watching Potter work. The boy acted on some form of autopilot, working through the potion directions methodically. Had he memorized it from the previous night's detention? Potter stirred, sprinkled, and heated it in the exact order – without looking at the board once. The boy seemed oblivious to those around him, too. Potter's world had narrowed to just his cauldron. There was an elegance to the boy’s actions. Severus couldn’t help but be captivated a moment by his grace. 

Glancing over Potter's shoulder, Severus saw that it was the only one to turn the perfect shade of deep blue. It bubbled happily, giving off a bit of smoke, also the desired effect. Severus couldn't have brewed it better himself. And wasn’t that a pleasant surprise? 

Quietly, Severus said so not to draw attention to Potter or himself, “Twenty-five points to Gryffindor, Potter.”

Potter again whipped his head up in Severus's direction. His eyes grew large, making his expression stricken. He asked, his voice trembling, “Didn't I copy it right last night? What did I do wrong, sir?”

His expression softened into vulnerability. Potter vibrated in his seat as if he'd bolt. His hands clenched and unclenched in front of him. Potter bit his lip, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

“You misheard me, Potter,” Severus said. “I'm giving you twenty-five points for the best potion of the class.” 

“You're – you're what?” Potter asked, blinking in astonishment. He jolted and whispered, “I mean thank you, sir.” 

“Everyone, examine Potter's potion. Yours should have looked just like this one,” Severus commanded. 

The class filed past it, looking it over. Granger leaned over it, scrutinizing it. Her eyes went wide with awe. She lifted her head, a pleased smile crossing her face. Weasley gaped at the potion, looking back and forth from Potter to the potion and back again as if he couldn't believe it. Malfoy leaned over it, sneering as jealously flashed in his eyes. Several of the students muttered, “Wow, I wish mine looked like that,” and “At least mine turned blue.”

Potter held his hands clasped in his lap, his head bowed. Severus quirked an eyebrow. He had expected bragging or taunting – especially Potter to Malfoy. After all, Malfoy teased Potter relentlessly every time he failed. He had expected a pompous display. Potter should be crowing about his achievement.

Instead, Potter shifted in his seat and kept his eyes down. He slumped down, shrinking under the praise. The boy clearly wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He shrugged his shoulders at some of the questions as if he had no idea how he had managed to brew this potion.  
Perhaps he didn't. 

How had Severus not see the boy's modesty? 

The first years started to pack their bags and clean their stations. They filed out the door at Severus's dismissal. Some glanced one last time at Potter's healing potion. Longbottom's wide eyes stared at it with longing before scurrying out under Severus's scathing gaze.   
Severus said, “A moment, Potter.” 

Potter slumped further into his seat, biting his lip. He waved Granger and Weasley away. The pair glanced between Potter and Severus. An unspoken debate took place before Granger huffed. She grabbed Weasley's arm, leading him from the room.

“I have a couple of questions and then you can be on your way.”

“Yes, sir?”

Severus pursed his lips, trying to find the right words. He asked, each word soft and deliberate, “Did memorizing today's potion help you with making it?”

Potter shrugged, squirming in his seat. He blushed, flicking his eyes away. He seemed ashamed that he had managed to commit the potion to memory. Or embarrassed that he had been caught. Or that he was afraid. 

“Well, Potter?”

“Yes, sir. It helped a lot.” Potter mumbled the words into his chest. 

“Very good.”

A brief uncomfortable silence settled over them. Severus wanted to ask Potter why he acted as if he had failed yet again. Why was the boy so miserable with his success? Severus realized that he had seen the pose on Potter in almost every class. He had always interpreted it as disrespect, disinterest, and arrogance. It had been his projection of James Potter onto the first year. 

This whole time, Severus had missed the real eleven-year-old in front of him.

Before Severus could ask him anything, Potter blurted, “Why are you helping me, sir? I'm pants at this Potions making.”

“Perhaps.” Severus leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. He searched Potter's face, his eyes searching his. “Why don't you let me decide if you have potential or not, Potter?”

“Yes, sir.” Potter looked away, wringing his hands. He hugged himself, hunching down into his desk. 

Severus flipped through Potter's edition of the Potions book, landing on the page for their next potion. He lifted his gaze, seeing Potter stare down at it. “Copy this one until you've memorized it for our next class.”

“Yes, sir.” Potter stuck a marker into the book, shutting it with a thud. He shifted in his seat, preparing to stand. 

“One more thing, Potter.”

Potter stopped, nodding. He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head. 

Severus took out a bottle, ladling Potter's healing potion into it. Once it was all in the bottle, he put a stopper in it. He set it down next to Potter's book. “You made it, you should get to keep it. Knowing your penchant for attracting trouble, Potter, I rather insist that you take it. You'll probably need it.”

Potter picked the bottle up, turning it over and over in his hands. The liquid swirled around in it, glowing. He stared at it, transfixed. The boy whispered to himself, “I made this.”

The childlike wonder in his voice awed Severus. He rarely heard such awe from his students. He had forgotten what it felt like to feel it with his own potions. The art he loved had become so mundane, every day with teaching and brewing to order. Seeing this young boy’s astonishment breathed beauty and freshness into potions. Such innocence imbued Potter’s words. 

Potter lifted his head, a brilliant smile crossing his lips. Radiance shone from his face. Joy danced in his green eyes — so like Lily's. The boy laughed softly, a musical lilt to it. He said playfully, “Now you sound just like Hermoine, sir.”

Severus bit back a gasp. He wanted Potter to always look this carefree and happy. That he had a hand in the boy's modest joy in this moment boggled his mind. 

“I'll take the comparison to Granger as a compliment, Potter,” Severus said, a slight smirk crossing his lips. “You may go. Report back tonight for detention.”


	3. Chapter Three: Snape Is Still the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes back to Gryffindor Tower and is confronted by Hermoine and Ron. 
> 
> Later, in the Great Hall, Harry has a stare down with Snape. 
> 
> Is Snape still the enemy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No monies are being made from this fanfiction and no copyright infringements are intended.

Harry walked down the hallway, examining the potion he had made. It still stunned him that he had managed it. Every other potion he had tried to make turned into a disaster. He remembered that cooking had been the same way. Aunt Petunia would read – more like bark – the recipe out loud to him and he was expected to make it. Until he had the instructions and actions memorized, Harry burned or scalded or didn't flavor things quite right.

Once he did, though? Harry knew that he could make that dish in his sleep.

Why hadn't he thought to do that with Potions? 

Harry knew why: Severus Snape. 

From the moment he had walked into the man's classroom, Harry had been in trouble. He had been called out for his “inattention” while taking notes. Harry had been ridiculed for his lack of basic potion-making knowledge. He had been mocked for his unwanted celebrity status. He had been punished for his “cheek.”

Harry Potter and Severus Snape had gotten off on the wrong foot.

In all this time, Harry still didn't know why the Potions professor hated him so. He just did.

That animosity had only gotten worse since his first Quidditch match. Snape had spent the entire match jinxing Harry and his broom. He had made it lurch, dive and be unresponsive to Harry. The loss of control of his broom could have gravely injured the boy or possibly killed him. If it hadn't been for Hermoine, Harry shuddered to think what might have happened to him. 

Harry knew that Snape was after the Sorcerer's Stone. He had been injured by the three-headed dog guarding it. Harry had seen the bloody injury. Snape may have even sent the troll into the school. Harry had all the reason to distrust the man. How else would he threaten Harry? What else would he try to do to get to the Stone?

Harry would watch Snape, just to be ready if he did. 

As for Snape's class, it was no use. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to keep his head down, Harry was always in trouble. He received the most scrutiny and criticism, including Neville Longbottom. 

Until today.

Harry stopped in front of the Fat Lady's portrait, pausing. He looked down at his potion. It swirled inside a beautiful rich blue. It had an ethereal glow, pulsing as Harry swished the bottle. This was the best potion he had ever made. Snape had praised him. He had really praised him. Hell, he'd given Harry twenty-five points.

That never happened. 

The whole time Snape had directed the class to examine the potion he had made, Harry felt the tension build. He had expected the professor to say he had made a mistake, that he had lied, that he was joking. Harry knew the other shoe would drop. So, Harry kept his head down and his responses to others minimal. He wouldn't give Snape more ammunition to taunt him with. 

Harry expected Snape to take back the twenty-five points.

More than that, though, Harry still didn't know what to do with praise. The Dursleys had never once praised, thanked, or appreciated anything he had ever done. None of the meals he cooked or the cleaning he had done or the efforts to remain out of sight when company came had been so much as acknowledged. Harry had sometimes sarcastically thanked himself when it'd been apparent that he'd made the meal right or trimmed the hedges well or made a room sparkle. So hearing praise – real and genuine praise – had overwhelmed him.

Sure, Harry had been praised before since coming to Hogwarts, but somehow this time it felt different. Maybe it was because the praise had come from Snape himself. He had remarked on Harry's slicing – a skill he had mastered around age seven. The professor had congratulated him on making a great potion. The praise had felt hard-won – but a heavy burden to a young boy so unaccustomed to any real recognition. Snape had exacting standards and Harry had never once hoped to meet any of them. 

To do so even once maybe the greatest accomplishment of his Hogwarts career.

Something had happened in the detention the night before. He knew he'd fallen asleep. He knew that he had had a nightmare. Harry just couldn't remember anything about it, thankfully. Snape had woken him, breaking him from whatever night terror that had gripped him. Snape had been furious, snarling in his face as he chased Harry out. Judging by the ink stain on the floor the next day, Harry wagered the professor had flipped that desk once he left, obviously enraged. That should have made Snape all the more antagonistic towards him.

Instead, Snape didn't seem as hostile anymore. His harsh expression had softened a little. To Harry, it seemed like Snape had seen him for the first time, maybe ever. 

That made Harry all the more nervous. Nothing good could come from that. 

Perhaps this new friendlier side was meant to trick Harry. Maybe he wanted to gain Harry's trust by pretending to be nice. Harry squeezed his hands around the bottle, stiffening. Snape was still his enemy. He couldn't forget that. If this was a new trap, Harry wouldn't fall for it. Not now, not ever. 

Harry gave the password, entering the Gryffindor Common Room. The moment he stepped inside, Ron and Hermoine each grabbed an arm, whisking him up to his dorm room.

Hermoine asked, “Well? What did Professor Snape want?”

Harry shrugged. He handed his potion to Hermoine. “He gave me my potion.”

“That's it?” Ron snatched it from Hermoine. 

Hermoine glared at Ron, snorting in disgust. “Ron!”

“Yeah.” Harry folded his arms over his chest. He flopped down onto his bed. “And to tell me to memorize the next potion.” 

“Memorize?” Hermoine asked, her brows furrowing. “I don't understand.”

“Wait, mate, you mean to tell me that you memorized how to make this potion and made it from just your memory?” Ron asked, blinking. His mouth hung open in astonishment.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “That would be the definition of memorization.” 

“Did you even look at the board today?”

“Not even once.”

“Wicked!” Ron swished the potion around, the blue seeming to deepen further. “You're brilliant, Harry.”

“Ron's right, Harry. That's amazing,” Hermoine whispered. “That's a rare gift. When did you memorize it, though?”

“Last night in detention.” Harry set the potion book onto the bed, opening it to the next potion. “I suspect that's what I'll do in tonight's detention, too. We make this one next class. So Friday?” 

“How? Did he have you make it until you had it memorized?” Hermoine asked, her brow furrowed.

“No. He had me copy it until I had it memorized.” 

“You memorized it by copying it?” Hermoine blinked. “Harry, you're remarkable.”

Harry shrugged. His face felt hot. He glanced down at the page, noticing it was another healing potion, the Wiggenweld. “Seems Snape has a theme of the month for our potions, too. It's another healing one.”

“Yeah?” Ron asked. He swished Harry's potion. “What's this one heal?”

“Boils,” Hermoine said, rolling her eyes. “If you paid attention in class, you'd know that.”

“I was watching out for Harry!” Ron huffed. He threw his hands up. “Snape's after him, remember? Harry's more important than any stupid potion.”

“I didn't say he wasn't, Ronald.” Hermoine folded her arms over her chest.

Harry sighed at their bickering. He loved them, but sometimes they tended to put him in the awkward position of being in the middle. It was worse when they bickered about him. 

“Well, what's the Wiggenweld one do?” Ron asked, glancing down at the book.

“Honestly, Ron, don’t you even try to read our textbooks?” Hermoine asked, rolling her eyes. 

Ron rolled his back, ignoring the question.

“Replenishes stamina,” Harry said. He took his potion back from Ron. “Snape said that I'd probably need it – you know because I'm always finding trouble.” 

“That's not threatening at all,” Ron said, snorting. 

“Actually, I told him that he sounded just like Hermoine,” Harry said, a small smile crossing his lips. 

“Me?” Hermoine squeaked. She wrung her hands. In a small voice, she asked, “What did he say to that? He didn't get mad, did he?”

“Actually, Snape took it pretty well,” Harry said, shrugging. He set the healing potion down onto the nightstand. “Even said he’d take it as a compliment.” 

“I'm still trying to process that you memorized the potion, mate.” Ron sat onto his own bed with a grunt. “Mine was okay, but not even close to being good enough for Snape. How did you learn how to do that?”

Harry hunched in on himself, shrugging. He had no desire to talk about Aunt Petunia now or ever. Her manner of teaching him how to cook made Snape look good. He shuddered to think about how every time he failed he hadn't lost trivial things like points. He was locked into the cupboard under the stairs. Sometimes the only meal he'd get was his failure. It usually was inedible, burnt or raw, or over seasoned. There was no way either Ron or Hermoine would understand.

Memorization wasn't some neat trick. It was born of necessity to survive the Dursleys. He actually got to eat only when what he had cooked turned out – and only by himself after everyone else – if he was lucky. How could he ever explain how humiliating his childhood had been? Harry would never be able to look his friends in the face again if they knew the truth. 

“Harry?” Hermoine asked a gentle hand on his arm. “Did he do anything else?”

Harry lifted his glasses, rubbing at his blinking eyes. “No. Just asked if memorization had helped.”

“Oh.” A frown crossed her face as if she faced a test she couldn't pass. It deepened until her forehead crinkled, too. She said, hesitance in her voice, “Maybe if you do well again, he'll be nice to you.”

“Maybe.”

Snape being nice to Harry was what worried him.

\-------

Snape's beady black eyes followed him relentlessly through supper. No matter how many times he looked up, the Potions Master remained fixated on him. Harry hunched in on himself, wishing he could disappear. He had no idea why Snape seemed so obsessed with him. He just was. It all seemed so obvious, too out of character for the man. The Snape that he dealt with used subterfuge and subtlety to trick him. He skulked in shadows or did things under the cover of night. 

He didn’t just stare openly and telegraph what he was doing. Until now, of course.

Harry ate his portion of roast meat, one arm curled around his plate. He stared back, not breaking eye contact with Snape. If the Potions professor wanted a staring contest, Harry would give him one. He narrowed his eyes, frowning.

“Mate, he's staring at you,” Ron whispered. He shuddered. “It's creepy.”

Not once breaking his stare down, Harry remarked, bitterness dripping from his words, “You don't say.”

Hermione whispered, a finger on her chin, “I wonder why.”

“It doesn't matter why. We just have to keep one eye on him. He's up to something – that's obvious,” Harry murmured. He took a bite of his dessert. Usually, he focused on the treacle tart he loved – something he hadn't had a taste of before Hogwarts – but tonight he ate the sweet lemony tart without much notice. “I just wish I knew what it was.”

Snape snorted into his goblet as Dumbledore whispered something into his ear. The intense but impassive expression flashed rage before returning to a smooth mask. The Potions professor never broke his eye contact with Harry. Snape said something back. His goblet spilled into his lap, causing him to look away finally from Harry to mop it up.

Ron chortled next to him. “Serves Snape right.”

Harry's eyes met Dumbledore's. The Headmaster winked. Harry nodded, mouthing, “Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore raised his goblet in return.

Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, stood and exited the Hall. Harry kept his gaze fixed on Snape, but watched the other teacher walk past his table out of the corner of his eye. He walked briskly, his stride wide and hurried. His expression twisted into anxiety and fear. Quirrell's eyes darted around and he wrung his hands. Something had spooked the Defense the Dark Arts teacher.

Once the Great Hall door slammed shut, Snape stood, throwing his used napkin onto his plate in disgust. He stalked out of the Hall, his robes billowing around him like vast bat wings. He slammed the door harder, fury evident in his gesture. The sound boomed in the momentary silence. 

Harry shoved the last bite of treacle tart into his mouth. He chewed quickly. Harry hissed at Ron and Hermoine, “Stay here.”

“Harry–,” Hermoine started. 

“Let us come with you, Harry,” Ron said, worry swirling in his eyes.

“Stay. I'll be back.” Harry tossed his napkin down. “I just need to use the loo.”

As he turned the corner, Harry saw that the Potions professor had the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor cornered not too far from a statue. Quirrell stood on his tiptoes, trying to get away while Snape pressed forward, his wand drawn and held low. His robes billowed behind him, making him appear larger. 

“I won't remind you again,” Snape said, his voice a dangerous slither. “You don't want to be on my bad side, Quirrell.”

“B-b-but Severus, I d-d-don't know what you mean?” Quirrell slid up the wall higher. He had his palms splayed to support him. “I'm not sure w-w-why you think I would?”

“Have you managed to get past Hagrid's pet yet, hmm?” Snape drawled, raising his wand to tuck it beneath Quirrell's chin. He dug it into the other professor’s throat. “You're aware it protects the Sorcerer's Stone, yes?”

“N-n-no, S-s-s-severus. I promise!” Quirrell's voice cracked. “I don't know what you're talking about!” 

“Don't. Lie. To. Me,” Snape hissed.

“I'm n-n-not!” Quirrell whimpered. 

“So, you rushed out of supper because the bubble and squeak gave you indigestion, eh?” Snape dug his wand into Quirrell's neck. He lowered his voice to a silken snarl. “I know what you're up to. You're not as sneaky as you think you are.”

“S-s-s-sneaky?” Quirrell tried to slide down the wall to getaway. “I d-d-don't want t-t-the Stone. I heard that you do.”

Snape snorted. “Don't—”

The doors of the Great Hall flew open, and a torrent of students flooded the hallways. Harry pressed himself up against the wall to avoid being crushed. With the flow of people, he lost sight of the alcove Snape and Quirrell hid in. Once the first rush faded, Harry dodged around others only to catch sight of Snape's black robes billowing around a corner. The man disappeared.

Quirrell was also gone.

Harry ducked into another alcove, flattening against the wall. He tossed the Cloak off, pocketing it. Shock flooded him. His heart hammered, the beat throbbing in his head. Snape was trying to get Quirrell to help him get the Sorcerer's Stone! What on earth did he want with it? How much power could he gain?

One thing became evident to Harry after the exchange: Snape was still the enemy.


End file.
